


Before We Go || Calum Hood ||

by cnccs21



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Inspired by Music, Letters, Love, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Notes, Teen Angst, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4763777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnccs21/pseuds/cnccs21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a normal sunny day, Rose starts planning her suicide.</p>
<p>Torn between living and going, and with a dreadful sense of loneliness, she writes suicide letters to ease the minds of those she leaves behind.</p>
<p>But when she stops a stranger from killing himself, questioning her whole beliefs and plans, she begins to see the connections her life has with others, and the true harm of leaving those she loves behind.<br/>---------------</p>
<p>Trigger Warnings: depression and suicide</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Suicide Letters

The first thing you need to know about me is that I don't need help. I found myself thinking about it and decided that I'm not sick. I mean, everyone thinks about dying, that doesn't mean I'm depressed. No one will ever agree that I am.

This pain I feel, this aching fear of the future, this on-and-off sadness, these feelings mean nothing. My life is too good and comfortable for me to be depressed.

Yet I still find myself thinking about it everyday.

I wonder if I'm in denial, I wonder if this is normal. People think about suicide without being sick, right?

I'm not sick.

I'm not.

I'm okay.

I'm okay.

I'm okay.


	2. Prologue

I wrote the first one on a perfectly normal day, a sunny one. I suppose all days are normal, until something special happens. My parents were driving across a bridge,and from the back seat of the car, I found myself imagining jumping off into the golden waters below.

I imagined standing on the edge of the bridge, arms extended at my sides, my hair dancing in the wind. I saw my hand reach out towards the sunset that filled the sky with the colours I so much loved. I saw myself taking a step forward into the air, and I imagined falling to the nothingness of the infinite. 

I wondered if it would hurt, or if I would be scared.

I wondered if it would hurt more than living, or be scarier than the future.   
If anyone would miss me.

If anyone would cry.

I wondered if I could really do it.

I had, involuntarily, began making plans in my own head. And after that it was impossible to stop. These ideas wrapped around my head, in a tangled string of confusion, and I couldn't stop myself, or my thoughts.   
I imagined my funeral. I tried to guess who would care. When I didn't like the answers, I tried to tell myself that I was wrong, that none of it would happen anyway, and that people did care. But doubt has always been a part of me, as much my own existence has, and I failed to convince myself that, if I did decide to stop the suffering, someone would care. I failed to believe that I, unlike anyone else, had any importance in the world.

So I didn't stop all these plans from forming on my head, I simply told myself that I didn't have to follow them.

I wrote the first letter, that very same day, as soon as I got home; and I wrote the last one 2 weeks before I met him.


	3. Letter Attempt #1

All my life, I have only been afraid of two things: the dark, and pain.

I have lived most of my life in the dark and in pain.

Fuck you too, Universe.

Fuck you too.


	4. The Good Days

3 days before we met

What is life?

I don't think anyone can argue that life is a rare miracle. Whether you believe in God, destiny, or coincidences. The single fact that you are alive is a combination of random acts of love, hate, kindness...

If that person hadn't done that thing at that second, that made another person do that other thing at that next second, maybe you wouldn't be here. Destined, random, doesn't matter, you can't deny how strangely beautiful it is.

For that same reason we must enjoy it all we can. We have to celebrate this rare and amazing thing people say living is.

But if you don't see life as a miracle, if you can't enjoy or celebrate the rareness that is existing, then what value does it has?

These are my thoughts as I look down the window. It's a grey rainy day, and the streets are mostly empty, with everyone trying to get away from the water. Even as a child, I have always loved these days: the sound of rain against the glass, the smell that lingers in the air, the comfort in knowing that while earth cries we are safe inside our homes, away from the world outside.

"Ooooohhh, check this sucker out", a loud and excited voice takes me from my thoughts, "he's totally falling for our crap".

"That's cus we're masters in lying", I say, smiling at my best friend.

"Uhuh, masters of lying online", she rolls her eyes and gestures towards her sandwich, "may I remind you that we almost freaked out when we had to ask for food in the cafe? "

"Yeah, yeah, I know, shyness, blabla. Not my fault that they really think we're Olga and Ivanna from Russia, looking for fun. I mean, who would believe in that?!", I say, moving my hands around in circles.

My best friend Jane, and I had been enjoying a lazy weekend afternoon at her house, when the inevitable boredom caught up with us. Our solution? Talk to strangers online.   
So here we are, two hours later, enjoying a nice sandwich and contemplating the mysteries of life, while we trolled guys looking for sext.   
I think about what little-me would have said about this. That little sweet girl would cringe at the idea that I would spend her precious rainy days like this. But life doesn't always go as expected, does it? I'm not her anymore.

I once asked her if we should feel guilty about all this.

"This guys need to learn to respect us a bit more, besides, we're not robbing them or anything, we're just making fun of them. Relax."

Oh, Jane, you certainly made me much more interesting.   
We had met about a year ago, and soon befriend one another when we realised we shared many common interests and, more importantly, common hates. We liked to play around saying a match so perfect had to be destiny, even if none of us was a firm believer in it. I liked that idea.

I adjusted my chair, so it was closer to the computer and not to the window, and looked at the screen.

"Has he asked for skype or anything?", my eyes are quickly scanning the bits of conversation I missed. 

"Yeah, but I used that *we wanna test you first, big boy* line you used on the last one and he bit it.".

"I will never understand the male desperation for sex", I roll my eyes while talking.

"Whatever you say... vlut", she throws me a smirk.

"Ah! I am not a vlut".

"Uhuh, keep believing that. Need I remind you of math class?"

"I wasn't even flirting! When did sarcasm and sass become flirting? "

"When the guys start losing it".

"They're guys, when are they not losing it?".

"Fair enough, my vlut friend"

"I guess we're a pair of vluts, then", I point an accusing finger at her.

"I called you one, I never said I wasn't". She crosses her arms and smirks, again.

We can't help ourselves from laughing until our eyes threaten to water. And I can't stop thinking abouy how happy we are.

This is one of the good days. Those were anyone who saw us might think that we're okay. Sometimes we even fool ourselves like that.

I knew, long before she told me, how desperate she felt inside. We never mention it unless she wants to. Unless she needs a shoulder to cry on. A loved one who listens.  
Even though our reasons are different, and our feelings aren't quite the same, we both share the same problem: an enormous doubt on our will to live.

But not even she knows.  
I know she would understand how I feel, but I never told her of my own desperation. I don't know why. I tell myself that it is easier if everyone thinks I'm strong, strong enough to listen to all their problems, strong enough to not share mine. But that is a lie, I'm not that good of a person.  
Sometimes I wonder if she knows but pretends not to, the same way I did for her. But then I tell myself that that is impossible, that I'm believing myself to be more important and note worthy than I am.  
On this aspect (and this alone), she is like everyone else: she doesn't suspect a thing.

But this is a good day, where we laugh and have fun, and ignore all shit life throws at us. On these days, we ignore how much we suffer.

The guy keeps answering. We keep chatting.

"So, are you going to Sarah's party?", she asks me while typing our next answer.

"Yeah probably, if you go", I answer while cringing at the guys poor choice of dirty words, "where is this guy from, by the way?"

"India, or something. You think Sophie's parents will let her go?", she turns to look at me and away from the monitor, " It'd be a good place for you to introduce us better, I wanna know her, she seems nice".

" She is, that's why she's my other best friend, genius. I texted her, and she said she'd try but I doubt her parents would let her, they're... complicated", I type on the keyboard something for the other creep, "And since it's not exactly a tea party...".

"It is if you switch tea with alcohol", she looks at me, she always loved dry jokes.   
I sent her an annoyed look.  
"Shut up".

We don't talk for a little while, except for the occasional sound of disgusts we'd do when Mr.Creep, on the other side, sent us one of his replies. After a few minutes, Jane broke the silence.

"You know... Richard is going".

"And? We are friends".

"... You guys haven't talked in a long time", she let's that hang in the air, telling me, without words, that I might be wrong, " you sure he can't change your mind?", she talks low, her eyes never leaving the terrible terrible chat we're having.

I sigh and click enter to send a reply.

"There is nothing to change! I still want to be friends, but he made a mistake and I realised I don't like him that way, he is the one complicating everything."

"Yeah, I know, but he's crazy about you, he doesn't talk about anything else.", she holds up her hands, as if defending her own words.

"Not my fault he is so dramatic... and we never even dated, we were almost. That's all we were: almost.", I can't help feeling that I'm being a bitch, I do that a lot, I really am a terrible person. "I told him we could talk and stay friends, he didn't even try. See? He doesn't even like me that much, trust me...".

She opens her mouth to respond, but decides against it, she simply mutters the word idiot and turns her attention back to the screen.   
In the screen an icon flashes indicating that Mr. Creep as answered, asking both of us questions that made him look more like a sex offender, and less like a sexting teenager.

"The guy is starting to creep me out, let's ditch him", she says.

"Do we mock him some more, or just leave? ", I send her a sly smile.

"Please", she cracks her fingers and smirks, "do you even know me?".


	5. Letters

When I got home, I was greeted by absolute silence. A rare thing at my house.  
My sister was out with her boyfriend, enjoying life in a way that I never could; my younger sister was out with my mother, I couldn't remember what they were doing, and dad was out at work, he would be gone for two days.  
But I didn't mind the quiet or the loneliness, I was more than used to being alone as I spend most of the days that way, but that's ok, I've grown to find the silence conforting.  
I should have a few hours alone.

I walk down the hallway leading to my bedroom, bumping in the furniture as I do, the dark marks left in my skin a reminder of my own clumsiness. I drop my keys in my desk and lay down on my bed, taking of my shoes.

I stare at the ceiling above me and sigh. This day was supposed to be good, the afternoon was so fun, why am I sulking down like this? I can't even control it.

My hand dives in the space between the white wooden bed and the baby blue wall, and grabs a wooden box hidden there.   
I sit up and let my hand caress the dark wood before opening it.  
I look at the letters kept inside and pick up one. The little envelope as a "7" written with my messy handwriting, in pencil, of course, so I could erase it in case I decided to use it.

Every single mark on the paper seemed to burn into my head and I quickly placed the letter back in the box.   
All of a sudden, I only felt enraged.

I hated all those stupid sheets of paper, stored on a ridiculous box. A reminder of all the fucked up things I felt, of all the crap I have to endure.  
I wanted to burn them. Rip them apart. Destroy them.

But I didn't.

Instead I hid the box where I always did and ignored the need to look at it again. I laid down on the bed, the side of my head pressed against the pillow, closed my eyes, and focused on the sound of my beating heart.

A reminder that I was still alive.


End file.
